


He Who Gives Himself

by flawedamythyst



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-06
Updated: 2011-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 11:23:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flawedamythyst/pseuds/flawedamythyst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Santa Claus is anyone who loves another and seeks to make them happy; who gives himself by thought or word or deed in every gift that he bestows.</i> - Edwin Osgood Grover</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Who Gives Himself

“...absolutely ridiculous to expect children to believe in something so completely illogical, and yet they do! How anyone, even a child, could accept the existence of a man who can visit every household in the world in one night...”

John sighed, tuning out of the rant. Clearly, mentioning Father Christmas on Christmas Eve had been a mistake, even if it had only been a joke. But then, how was he supposed to know that it would set Sherlock off like this?

“...lying to children about something so patently absurd just encourages them to disbelieve everything that a parent says from then on. And they wonder why teenagers are such hard work! After a betrayal like that, how can they expect...”

Suddenly, John had a flash of inspiration that made him laugh, cutting Sherlock off. Sherlock paused mid-sentence and glared at him. “You waited up for him, didn't you?” said John. “And saw your parents instead.”

Sherlock looked caught out. “It was the logical thing to do,” he said stiffly. “If some elderly alcoholic – and he would have to be, the amount of sherry he's purported to consume in one night - was going to break in to our home, of course it made sense to stay awake and keep an eye on him.”

“Of course,” agreed John, still giggling. Sherlock huffed and turned away.

“The whole thing's ridiculous,” he declared, picking up his violin. He started to play while John was still laughing, something loud, fast and completely unchristmassy. John let his amusement subside and settled back to listen.

 

****

 

The next morning, Christmas morning, Sherlock was still locked in his bedroom, presumably sleeping, when John left. John had wondered if he should go through with his plan in light of last night's outburst, but ended up hanging the stocking on Sherlock's door-handle anyway. Finding enough small items that Sherlock wouldn't immediately declare to be useless rubbish and keeping them all hidden safely away had been far too much work for John to abandon the project now.

He'd agreed to go to church with Mrs. Hudson as soon as she'd asked, ignoring the disgusted snort that Sherlock had answered the request with. He'd never really been religious, but his parents had always made him and Harry go to church on both Christmas and Easter, and it felt familiar to sit through the service, singing along to the carols and trying to remember the words to The Lord's Prayer. Besides, he'd prayed several times this year, all some variation on 'please God let me live' or 'please God let my ridiculously idiotic flatmate live', and God had been good enough to keep them both alive every time, so going to church seemed the least John could do in return.

When John got home, Sherlock was sat on the floor of their sitting room, surrounded by wrapping paper and presents. The test tubes that John had wrapped separately – Sherlock was always blowing them up, it was an easy guess that he'd need new ones – had been carefully lined up in size order on the carpet and the Rubik's cube was set next to them, already completed. So much for keeping Sherlock amused in the absence of a case. The chocolate money and satsuma – included both because they were traditional and in an attempt to get Sherlock to eat something – were piled next to the box of nicotine patches. John hadn't been sure of that one, considering how Sherlock usually abused the things, but patches were still better than cigarettes, and it had bulked out the stocking.

Sherlock was wrapped in his dressing gown, wearing the gloves that John had got when the last pair he'd owned had been covered in blood at a crime scene that turned unexpectedly messy, and he was carefully writing something in the book that John had been unable to resist buying the moment he'd seen it.

“Merry Christmas,” said John, taking his coat off.

Sherlock's head came up with a start, as if he'd been so deep in concentration that he'd not realised that John had come in. He looked completely taken aback, eyes large and wide as if he'd been given some form of electric shock. John couldn't decide if that was a good thing or not.

“I see Father Christmas decided to come,” he said, trying to keep the mood light in case Sherlock was about to rip into him for giving in to something as juvenile as Christmas tradition.

“You bought me presents,” said Sherlock in a careful, even tone.

John shrugged slightly uncomfortably. “It's Christmas,” he said.

Sherlock nodded and looked back down, eyes passing over the collection that he'd surrounded himself with. “It's...” he said eventually, then cleared his throat. “It's, uh, good.” There was another long pause, then he added, “Thank you,” in the careful, awkward manner of a child who's been prompted by their mother.

“You're welcome,” said John, then he walked over to sink down onto the sofa. “What are you doing to that book, anyway?” he asked, desperately trying to pull them out of the awkward, emotional moment.

Sherlock looked back down at the book - _The Little Book Of Bunny Serial Killers_ , each page a different cartoon of rabbits murdering each other in increasingly unlikely and violent ways. “I'm noting down all the evidence that would be available at the crime scene,” he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world to do. “I've come to the conclusion that the rabbit version of Scotland Yard is even more incompetent than the human one.”

John laughed, unable to stop himself. “You're deducing cartoons?” he asked. Sherlock looked up at him, affronted, and John shook his head slowly. “Of course you're deducing them,” he said, half to himself. “What else would you do?”

Sherlock looked back down at the book, then pushed it aside and turned to face John, leaning forward. “I've deduced some other things from this as well,” he announced.

John raised an eyebrow. “Do I want to know?” he asked rhetorically.

Sherlock held up a finger. “Firstly, that you managed to buy me all the things I would have got myself.” He glanced down at the book again. “Well, almost all. So, you know me very well.”

John shrugged, unease trickling down his spine at the turn the conversation had taken. “We've lived together nearly a year now,” he pointed out.

Sherlock kept going without acknowledging that. “Second,” he said, holding up another finger, “you somehow managed to keep all this from me. You must have picked up some of my methods, which means you've been paying close attention to me, and you must have worked hard at it – so this was important to you.” He was in one of his rapid-fire monologues by then, but he paused for a moment to add, in a slightly lower voice, “Surprising me for Christmas was important to you.”

John's unease grew. He should have known that Sherlock would be able to read far too much into it. “It's just a stocking,” he said, trying to downplay it.

“I'm not finished,” said Sherlock. He pulled his hand out of his dressing gown pocket, where it had been fiddling with something as he spoke. John saw that it was the last of the presents he'd put in the stocking, the one that he'd personally counted as his 'real' present to Sherlock.

“And then there's this,” continued Sherlock, finally looking away from John in order to look down at the gift, thumb smoothing over the surface. It was a palm-sized magnifying glass, designed to fold snugly into a circular silver case, and the moment John had seen it, he'd known he had to get it for Sherlock. It was the right size to be kept in one of his cavernous coat pockets and a lot more suited to him, somehow, than the little plastic one he had now.

“It gives away rather a lot more than you intended it to,” he said in a low voice, his thumb still tracing the engraving that John'd had done almost on a whim when the salesman had asked him. He hadn't been sure what to put – everything he'd come up with had seemed either too flippant or too revealing. In the end he'd just settled for:

 _SH,  
Christmas 2010,  
JW_

But it seemed that even that had been too much, if Sherlock's carefully assessing gaze was anything to go by.

John shrugged again. “It just seemed to suit you,” he said. “You like it, right?”

Sherlock's face lit up. “It's perfect,” he pronounced, and knelt up in a quick movement that left his face merely inches away from John's. “And it means this,” he added, then put a hand on the back of John's head and pulled him down into a kiss.

Shock stilled John's mind for a moment, then the warmth of Sherlock's lips reawakened it and he leant into the kiss, grabbing hold of Sherlock's shoulder with his hand and sliding off the sofa to kneel in front of him.

When Sherlock pulled back, he was grinning triumphantly. John searched his mind for something to say but turned up nothing more intelligent than _holy shit, what the fuck?_ which he thought Sherlock might mock him for.

“I have a confession,” said Sherlock, running his hands down John's back to pull him in closer, tracing over the line of his spine and the planes of his shoulder-blades with proprietorial fingers.

“I think,” said John, then stopped and cleared his throat when it came out in a dazed-sounding voice, “I think that you've already made it.”

Sherlock smirked. “Not that,” he said. “That was merely the logical action following a series of deductions. No, this is far more serious.”

“You've put something horrible in the fridge again,” guessed John. “Oh, no, you've done something horrible to the food I bought for today.”

“No, and no,” said Sherlock. “Although you might want to avoid the top freezer drawer.”

John already had been, but it was nice to hear that his hypothesis regarding the odd, lumpy-looking cling film parcel was correct.

“John,” said Sherlock in a serious voice, and John pulled his mind away from the possible contents of the parcel to focus on him. “I don't have a present for you.”

John blinked at him, then let out a laugh. “I really didn't expect you to,” he said.

“Nevertheless, I have a suggestion,” continued Sherlock as if he hadn't spoken, “We could adjourn to my bedroom, where I will endeavour to repay you for your presents in kind, although I'm rather afraid that would be as much, if not more, a present for me than for you.”

John didn't even have to think about it. “That sounds like a brilliant idea,” he said. “That would be one of the best presents I've ever had, I think.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “One of?” he repeated in a disbelieving voice.

Smug bastard, thought John with affection. “Well, I did get Tracy Island when I was a kid,” he said. “With all the Thunderbirds _and_ Lady Penelope's car.”

It was clear from Sherlock's blank eyes that he had no idea what that was but before John could wonder how to enlighten him, he stood up, pulling John with him as if unwilling to let him out of his arms. “This will be better than any island,” he said in the voice of a man accepting a challenge and dragged John off towards his bedroom.


End file.
